


This Moment Is Enough

by Cid_Raines



Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: Existentialism, FIFA World Cup 2014, Fluff and Angst, Friendship/Love, I Made Myself Cry, Insecurity, Introspection, M/M, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-24
Updated: 2018-10-24
Packaged: 2019-08-06 21:51:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16395758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cid_Raines/pseuds/Cid_Raines
Summary: “Nobody took their eyes off you, though,” Thomas breathes, his brown eyes twinkling with the fervour of victory but also something entirely different. “I don’t understand you, Miro. You’re like a firework. You explode into light and you shine so brightly but when the colours fade nobody thinks about you. You deserve all the praise in the world.”Miro smiles softly, once again captivated by Thomas’s ability to express a feeling that resonates with him. “I’m content with what I have, Mülli. This moment is more than enough.”





	This Moment Is Enough

**Author's Note:**

> i made myself cry writing this even tho it's probably not even any good bc i miss miro so much and nobody talks about him that much anymore and i've been having existential thoughts but this was super cute and i love thomas and god i really hate that people insult him now and i j needed some fluff :)

After the record breaking goal in Brazil, only one incredible part of an even more incredible night, they chant his name in the locker room, calling him a hero. It’s strange. He doesn’t feel like a hero. He has never felt like a hero. His goal hadn’t even been the perfect strike he had been secretly fantasising it would be, making up for the years of goals inside the box- but, he thinks wryly to himself, he’s never been known for his perfect football anyway.

 

No, his football has always been simple, and, just like him, extraordinarily ordinary. Those simple touches inside the box, his ability to always be where he needs to be- they’re expected traits of a striker. He’s added nothing new to the technical side of the sport, yet here he is, somehow standing on top of a list that included Ronaldo Nazário and Gerd Müller. His technical ability will never be remembered, but each and every crucial moment he has created over twelve years will be.

 

And isn’t that the most wonderful thing, he thinks, even as he blushes and gently reminds the team that _they beat Brazil seven to one. Toni even scored a brace. I’m not that important._ At nineteen he had been training to be a carpenter, and now he’s on the main stage, taking what might be his final bow in a prolific international career. Each and every one of his sixteen ordinary goals have become extraordinary.

 

Thomas sidles up to him when the team have gone off cheering and thumping each other on the backs, and he breathes a sigh of relief that all the attention has been diverted to celebration. He’s proud of himself, he’s privately over the moon by it all, but he has always been slightly incompetent in the face of extraneous praise.

 

“You were part of it too,” Miro says with a faint grin, as Thomas wordlessly pulls him into a hug. “I’m proud of you, Thomas.”

 

“It was such a strange goal,” Thomas admits, his usual self-certainty replaced by an expression of something like disbelief. “It was like they forgot I was there. Nobody picked me up.”

 

Miro knows he’s referring to the fact the Brazilians left him completely unmarked for his first goal. He chuckles, cupping Thomas’s cheeks. “They let you out of their sight. We all know what a mistake that is.”

 

“Nobody took their eyes off you, though,” Thomas breathes, his brown eyes twinkling with the fervour of victory but also something entirely different. “I don’t understand you, Miro. You’re like a firework. You explode into light and you shine so brightly but when the colours fade nobody thinks about you. You deserve all the praise in the world.”

 

Miro smiles softly, once again captivated by Thomas’s ability to express a feeling that resonates with him. “I’m content with what I have, Mülli. This moment is more than enough.”

 

There’s almost an urgency to Thomas’s gaze. “Even when you retire, we’ll always remember you, Miro. You know that, right?”

 

 _So this is what this is about,_ Miro thinks to himself. Thomas knows this is his final chase for that elusive gold. Maybe he _is_ a firework, exploding briefly into light and attracting all the attention, but when his sparks fizzle away into the night, all eyes will be on the next spectacle. He can’t say the thought hasn’t occurred to him, when he tosses and turns and thinks about the dreaded idea of retirement.

 

“You remind me of myself, sometimes,” Miro murmurs, after a moment of careful consideration. “Thinking that this is the be-all and end-all, that this is your only chance to make a mark. Every goal I scored, I felt like it made me more secure in my place in the world, prevented me from floating away, out of everyone’s memory. I was so normal, so nondescript, yet here I am now, with a fragile sort of place in the history of this sport. It won’t last forever. But I know, now, Thomas, that I have to be content with what I lend to myself, rather than what I lend to history.”

 

Thomas’s breath catches in his throat. “How do you _deal_ with it? I- I score goals. Everyone chants my name. I’m a _good_ footballer. Yet all I can think about is that one day a new generation will be shipped in and the  Germany of the World Cup 2014 will be an afterthought. What do I have, other than my footballing reputation?”

 

It’s startling to think that this is coming off their biggest defeat of Brazil ever, yet Miro understands. It’s how he felt after Germany came so close to tasting gold and yet had it whipped from them at the last second, the feeling of nervousness he had as he reached his third semi-final. _If we don’t win… what is it for?_

 

“You have a place in all of our hearts,” Miro says, gently stepping backwards and placing a hand on Thomas’s chest. He closes it into a fist, aware that Thomas is watching him with bated breath. “I wonder if you remember something that happened four years ago. It was during a training session in South Africa. The heat was sticky and everyone was complaining. Jogi had just about had it with our protesting everything he said, and said that if one more person said a word about being sweaty he’d make us _really_ sweaty- or, words to that effect, I chose mine poorly, there...

 

“We were practising penalty kicks and mine got saved by Manuel, who went the right way. I was a little bit disappointed that my shot had been so tame, and Jogi told me I needed to learn to put more power into penalties- I have still never scored a penalty for Germany, now I think of it… After my shot I went to watch you take your kick. Just as I expected, you got it in, straight into the bottom left corner.

 

“When you came back around to join me and watch everyone else take their kicks, you slapped me on the shoulder, grinning at me, and you said, ‘don’t you think it’s amazing to watch something you do succeed?’ I thought you were making fun of me, so I flicked your ear. You dodged it, and you were laughing, that sparkle still in your eyes. And then, you said quietly, in that way you do sometimes, ‘that feeling, that satisfaction, I get it with everything. Even something as small as making somebody laugh.’ And that got a laugh out of me.  And then you gave me a smile that I don’t think I’ll ever forget. It was small, but your eyes said it all.”

 

Miro finishes speaking with a soft smile at the look of incredulity on Thomas’s face, the tears that are clinging to his eyelashes. “You… you _remember_ that? Something that small, that long ago?”

 

“Something that small, that long ago,” Miro confirms. “What you said, the way you looked, stuck with me. I remember your tiny smiles and your roars of laughter and you landing on your bottom, the way you convert clumsy chances into goals, the way you get the whole room laughing, the way you exude happiness just by being here. Football reputation be damned, Thomas Müller, you have everything- you have love, you have a joy that nobody can avoid, and you… have my heart. So even if we don’t win this final, even when we’ve hung up our boots and a new generation enters the fray, you’ll still be buried deep within us, in a funny joke we remember, an out-of-tune song on the team bus, and in the look in your eyes when you tell me how you love making people happy.”

 

Tears drip down Thomas’s cheeks. “ _Miro…_ ”

 

"You're right here," Miro whispers, placing his palm flat against Thomas's chest again. "Forever and always."

 

Miro opens his arms as Thomas crashes into him, sobbing into his jersey, and runs his fingers through the boy’s hair. Miro can tell he’s overwhelmed by emotion- he can only imagine how turbulent Thomas feels right now, coming right after the adrenaline and heated feelings of the victory, and his self-revelation, and Miro’s words. Miro whispers soothing words, stroking his head, smiling as the _raumdeuter_ says, “ _Danke… Danke…_ ”

 

It’s not necessarily the _overall_ _worth_ of life that matters. It’s the moments like these, just like a front-flip in a roaring stadium, a wink a teammate throws at him when he’s about to cause mischief, the feeling of Thomas’s arms wrapped around his waist right now. For so long he’s felt like once he steps away from football his time’s up, and now he’s glad he knows how stupid a view that is. Even when he’s finished he’ll have the memories of these days inside of him, and that’s more important than any stat or record in the world.


End file.
